


Pick-Up Lines

by Viceter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/F, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viceter/pseuds/Viceter
Summary: Fareeha and Angela join an intact Overwatch in their 20s and communicate in pick-up lines.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 7/4/2016 at http://viceterships.tumblr.com/post/146921770904/prompt-who-makes-the-worst-chessy-pick-up-lines.

****“Did it hurt?” Are the first words Fareeha Amari says to her, two fingers resting gingerly on the crest of the Valkyrie suit’s halo. Angela, less upset than she should be that this stranger is touching her equipment (mostly because said stranger is attractive in every sense of the word) and far too close, steps right in it, even though she’s heard the line a zillion times before.

“What?”

A grin breaks out on the brown-skinned woman’s face.

“When you fell from heaven?

Angela rolls her eyes and vocalizes her displeasure.

“Ugh. Why did you bother to join Overwatch if all you were planning to do is deliver overused pick-up lines?”

“A pleasure to meet you too, Doctor Ziegler,” she mutters, taken aback.

Angela, surprised by her own surliness, presses her lips into a thin line and remains silent until the stranger walks away and leaves her to prepare for combat maneuvers.

Of course, it’s her luck to be assigned to the same squadron, though she doesn’t realize it until she’s latched onto Pharah, the aerial ace in the gleaming blue Raptora suit, and, after a series of well-placed rockets, she says to her companion mid-flight:

“Well done, agent.”

“Thanks for the assist, Doctor Ziegler,” comes the response in a thick, familiar accent.

“Oh. It’s you.”

The voice returns, steady and stoic.

“Let’s get to the objective.”

They capture the point together, Pharah eliminating any threat that dares even look in the Doctor’s direction. At the end of the skirmish, the squadron leader calls them over.

“Excellent work, you two. That’s the smoothest rookie run I’ve ever seen. You two could make a great team.”

Angela glances at the woman’s helmet, her lips pursed beneath the golden visor of the Raptora.

“Thank you, Captain,” she says, when Pharah remains silent.

“Think on it. Dismissed.” Pharah snaps off a salute and Angela follows, a beat later.

She turns to say something, but Pharah is already walking away.

* * *

In celebration of their first mission going off without a hitch, their squadron, sans the Captain, hits the town. Pharah is there too, but she keeps a wide berth from Angela, who falls into step with another rookie, Lena Oxton, Jesse McCree, and Genji Shimada. Pharah is flanked by Aleksandra Zaryanova and Mei-Ling Zhou. They get well and properly plastered, and Angela, fueled by lager, whiskey, and shame, sidles up to Pharah who ignores her.

Angela clears her throat.

Pharah glances her way, then at the wall behind the bar.

“I seem to have lost my number. Can I have yours?”

Pharah’s head swivels around, brown eyes wide. A beat passes, then she chuckles.

Angela lets out the breath she’d been holding. She holds out her hand.

“I’m sorry for earlier.” Pharah takes it.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that before a deployment. If my mother had seen…” she shakes her head.

“Your mother?”

“Brigadier General Amari.”

Angela feels her jaw drop a little. Pharah’s mouth twists.

“Please don’t look at me like that. I don’t get special treatment from her, and I don’t want it. I’m here to serve, just like everyone else.” There’s fire in her eyes. Angela is glad, so glad that she swallowed her pride.

“I believe you.”

Pharah nods; takes a swig from her beer. They fall into silence, and Angela realizes she doesn’t even know her name. She licks her lips.

“Pharah…”

“It’s Fareeha. Fareeha Amari.”

“Fareeha,” Angela says, testing the weight of each syllable on her tongue. She liked it, liked saying it. “Would you like to train together? The Captain — I agree. I think we could make a great team.”

Fareeha’s eyes narrow. She gives Angela a once-over, then grins.

“Sure. If you can handle overused pick-up lines.”

“Bring on your worst.”

* * *

Fareeha catches her in the Overwatch library one early morning, dressed in a tanktop and compression leggings. She does a double take when she notices Angela’s disheveled hair and her creased lab coat. She jogs over, body covered in a light sheen of sweat. Angela doesn’t notice until Fareeha speaks.

“I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”

Angela groans and drops her head onto her arms on the table.

“I’m an absolute wreck, Fareeha. Why would you even want to?”

“Oh, Doctor. If you stood in front of a mirror with 11 roses, you’d see 12 of the most beautiful things in the world,” Fareeha says, voice quavering with amusement.

“Do you ever run out of those?”

“No, they just get worse.” She drops into the chair beside Angela, smoothing her blonde flyaways down. “Do I need to carry you to your bed?”

Angela turns her head, resting her cheek on the table while one hand reaches out for Fareeha’s neck.

“Yes please. Can you pack my research too?”

Fareeha obliges her, tucking away sheafs of paper into Angela’s folders, then packing that and her laptop into the satchel hanging over the blonde’s chair. She hefts the satchel across her shoulder, kneeling in front of Angela, presenting her back. Angela climbs on, securing her arms around her neck, and sighing happily when Fareeha’s arms hook beneath her legs and she sets off at a steady pace, taking care not to jostle the exhausted doctor.

At her room, conveniently down the hall from Fareeha’s own, Fareeha punches in the code and sets her onto the cot. She keeps her eyes closed, Fareeha’s fingers tugging her ponytail out gingerly, removing her lab coat, and hesitating at the zipper to her skirt.

“Do you want me to take this off for you?” Fareeha’s voice, just a whisper, asks.

“Mmhmm.”

Fareeha fumbles with the zipper, sliding the skirt off her legs, revealing a hot pink thong, stripping off her flats and no-shows while she’s at it. Angela peeks, cracking open one blue eye and reveling in the red of Fareeha’s ears. She shuts her eyes tight when Fareeha turns around, returning to the bed to pull the covers, cool, over Angela’s body. She bends over, planting a kiss on Angela’s forehead.

“Sleep well, Angela.”

“Mmm. Danke, Fareeha,” she murmurs before turning over and letting the past 36 hours catch up.

* * *

Fareeha’s jaw is on the floor. Angela is so pleased her cheeks hurt from smiling. She twirls again, the hem of her crimson gown flaring as she spins. She struts over to Fareeha, closing her mouth with a finger beneath her chin.

“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” she says, and is infinitely more pleased when Fareeha gulps and almost, almost nods a yes. “Fareeha, Liebling, are you ever planning to put that corsage on me, or would you rather stare all night?”

Fareeha actually shakes her head, her beret slipping, sliding the corsage of red roses and white lilies over Angela’s left wrist, her fingers trembling. The small boutonniere pinned above the decorations of her Overwatch uniform matches perfectly, and Angela takes the opportunity to run her fingers over her lapels and straighten her black tie.

“Fareeha?” She says, hands trailing up to slide against the line of her comrade’s jaw. Fareeha licks her lips. “I’m very glad you asked me to be your date to the formal this year.”

Fareeha smiles, the tattoo beneath her right eye — Angela is still getting used to it, though she got it four months ago — scrunching with the movements of her face.

“I am very glad you said yes.”

When they walk in and are announced together as Major Fareeha Amari and Doctor Angela Ziegler, cheers and wolf-whistles rise from their squadron and their friends. Angela follows Fareeha’s eyes as they travel to her mother, sitting at the Strike Commander’s left hand, their matching berets a brilliant azure beneath the line of chandeliers in the ballroom. General Amari doesn’t smile; doesn’t nod, but that Fareeha is wearing that beret and sports an Udjat in her presence, Angela knows, means that she has earned a degree of the General’s regard.

They spend the evening together, their hands finding each other’s beneath the table, Angela’s thumb stroking small circles over Fareeha’s. They laugh and drink and dance with their friends and squadmates. Commander Morrison even stops by their table as he makes the rounds, accompanied by Generals Reyes and Amari, greeting each one of them by name. When Angela comes face to face with Ana Amari and the woman seizes her hand in a tight grip, brown eyes so much like Fareeha’s boring into Angela’s, she stares back levelly. In her mind she tells Ana that she loves Fareeha more than she ever did; that she would never break Fareeha’s heart the way she did; that she would give her whole life for Fareeha; that she would not, will not leave Fareeha the way she did.

Ana Amari looks away first.

At a nod from the General, Fareeha excuses herself.  Mother and daughter share words, far enough that they can’t be heard. Ana’s hand pats Fareeha’s shoulder, and they part ways. Fareeha doesn’t smile, not until Angela’s hand finds her thigh and they look at each other. She takes a deep breath.

“Dance with me?” Fareeha asks, lips thin.

“With pleasure.” On the floor, Angela leans to whisper in Fareeha’s ear. “You’re looking a little pale, Liebling. As your doctor, I think you’re lacking in Vitamin Me.”

“Oh god, Angela,” Fareeha says, even as her arms tighten around the blonde, “what have I done to you!”

“Ruined me. Utterly. Two and a half years paired with you and your terrible, terrible sense of humor, and I’m afraid I’m irredeemable. Whoever will have me now?”

Fareeha’s eyes twinkle. She leans in, slowly. Angela holds her breath.

“I would,” she says. “Now and always.” She waits a moment more, giving Angela one last chance to run. Angela tightens her grip around her neck.

Fareeha’s lips meet hers, soft and tasting faintly of cherry. Angela moans quietly, her body going limp against Fareeha’s. She’s waited years for this moment, and she lets herself drown in it, at least until Lena decides to interrupt them with a hoot and a cheer.

“Oh bloody fucking finally! Does this mean we never have to hear another godawful pick-up line over the comms?”

**FIN**


End file.
